The week had been a disappointing one. The Senator's Daughter had been exposed as a cannibal, we didn't go out for sushi, and noodly sax music played as I looked wistfully in the rain, a cliché out of one film noir or another. Sometimes, kids, when you throw the cards of life, they come back and cut you.
I retired to the office in GloMo District for a change. Funny place, where all the phone numbers are 5-4, but at least the garbage collection system works. If only that disturbing piece of graffiti, "Ugh thugs get the Fank Sedan!", had been wiped from the face of the forlorn wall beneath the banner of Luxury Feline Food Co. My mind jaunted back to when I was attacked by the epiphany that to unravel and whistleblow the biggest corporate conspiracy, we had to hire the best publicity firm — and why hadn't anyone else thought of that? It took the stage of one of those AVGs at first, and by the time the public was hooked playing, they just wanted to know more.
Also reminds me of when that rap group, The Dynasty, self-induced mental illness via Phamlophilax so they'd gain insights into rather deep lyrics. It worked, but they were no longer "an act". The sacrifices we make for art, children. (And I've attached the instrumental.)
That's the funny thing about addictions, folks. You can lull yourself into believing you'll be just fine.
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